Be afraid of the creepy clown!

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding nether regions

As regular readers, my family, Conservative Party Central Office and my pesky constituents will know, I am no stranger to having to make an apology. Cripes, old Struan has ‘been there and done that’ when it comes to saying sorry. I must have spoken, written or mouthed the word a bazillion times by now. I have lost count of how often I’ve woken up after a tremendous night on the sauce with BoJo, Seb Coe or The Great British Bake-Off girls (what a 24 hours THAT was. Woof!) and found that some unfortunate utterance or candid video, casting me in a less than perfect light, has somehow managed to go viral. And what do I do? I apologise. Sincerely. And hope some other poor idiot catches it the next time Lady Scandal comes a-calling.

But it looks like Elton John was right after all, about what constitutes the hardest word (although I’ve always had a lot of problems with ‘escalator’, as I once discussed at some length with Elton as we enjoyed a hedonistic night on the Morgan’s Rum and his baby grand). Because now, it seems, apologies for bad behavior are no longer required. ‘Sorry – not sorry” (as, I am given to understand, the kids are saying’) – is now the way to go.

In America, the Republican candidate for President has weathered storm after P.R. storm, without ever saying sorry for anything (or at least, not like he means it) and remains in contention. It absolutely beggars belief, but he has said, tweeted and been video-recorded doing things which would have ended the career of any other politician. Never mind the Leader of the Free World, we wouldn’t let a breakfast TV host get away with half of this stuff. He has, by his own words and deeds demonstrated conclusively that he is utterly unfit for public office, yet a sizable chunk of the US population simply don’t appear to give a hoot. There is only one thing for it. Emigration. Say hello to prospective Governor Struan Metcalf, Y’all!

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It has been a coulrophobic week in the village.  Reports hiv been coming in fae a’ ower the country of pranksters dressed up as clowns lowping oot at folk and gi’eing them a fleg. These ‘creepy clowns’, are yet anither unwelcome import fae the USA, like school proms and cheese in a can, and files we in Meiklewartle are nae usually ameen the first to pick up on crazes, (weve jist seen the the back of deely-boppers) even we are nae immune.

Last nicht, as Skittery Wullie wiz staggering hame fae the pub, he wiz maist alarmed tae see a grotesque figure lurking by the dyke aside his piggery. Noo, Wullie his lived a life and seen some sichts but even he wis feart o’ the strange pale face, wild tufts of hair, mad, staring een and the horrible rictus grin; so he pegged it straight back tae the pub, far he insisted on a lock-in. Naturally, the rest of us decided tae help oot wi the care and sensitivity for which the village is renowned, and, eence the lock-in wis ower, I gathered a wee mob of aroon a dizen folk wi’ pitchforks and flaming torches tae accompany Wullie safely hame.  So it wiz relief a’ roond fan the aforementioned scary clown stumbled across wir path, and turned oot tae be naen ither than a somewhat worse-for-wear Feel Moira. She had got herself a’ dolled up for a blind date but had showed a bittie mair enthusiasm than expertise wi the foundation, blusher and lipstick, and had then had an accident wi some hair straighteners.  The date itself, though, had apparently been a great success, the gentleman in question being a big Batman fan fae Badenscoth, fa thocht she hid come as the Joker.

I have heard, however, that clowns remain a major issue in Aiberdeen. In fact, Somedee wiz telling me there’s a hale building-full of them, nae too far fae the Marischal Square construction site. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, total football pundit

It’s always hard when an old mate becomes an escape-goat for the failings of an entire nation’s footballing hopes and dreams. But that is the houseboat my old team mate Gordon Strachan finds himself hitched to.

A lucky draw against Lithuania and a 3-0 defeat by Slovakia leaves us with a mothball’s chance of qualifying for the 2018 World Cup.

Wee Gordo, which is what I sometimes always call him, is copping a lot of flapjack for his team selection, his formulation and also his tic-tacs. I think that is unbelievable. How come he’s not getting no pelters for the bogging pink strip as well?